by Hillary Avis
Bethany nodded. “I don’t really want to think about it. I mean, it’s not like Marigold and I were friends, but that almost makes it worse. If I’d known she was going to die, I’d have been nicer to her.”
“Well, we’re all going to die at some point.”
Bethany grinned. “Are you saying I should be nicer to everyone?”
Kimmy nudged Bethany with her elbow. “Can’t hurt.”
“I don’t know, it sounds pretty painful to me!” Bethany’s words were joking, but her heart felt heavy in her chest. “Actually, it’s making me a little paranoid. I see pretty much every person who goes in and out of Newbridge Station. What if the killer is one of my regulars? Any bowl of soup I serve might be eaten by Marigold’s murderer.”
“Murderers gotta eat, too.”
Bethany nodded. “Murder is hungry work. Takes a lot of calories.”
Kimmy cracked up. “You’re sick!”
“You started it. Anyway, this is one of those ‘if you don’t laugh, you cry’ situations. I don’t want to think it’s anybody I know, but everyone is acting weird—myself included. I feel like everyone’s a suspect.”
“Not everyone. Not, like, Olive.”
Bethany said, “Well...”
“No!” Kimmy stuck out her bottom lip. “You can’t be serious.”
“She really didn’t like Marigold. That whole gluten thing was personal. And she wasn’t at the bakery at the time of the murder.”
“Stop. Just stop right now. You gotta turn off the suspicion faucet and let Charley do her job. Otherwise you’re going to get my middle school social studies teacher arrested. She’s a nice little old lady, not a killer!”
“I just don’t like to rule out possibilities,” Bethany said stubbornly. Not that Olive did it, but I can’t say she didn’t, either.
Kimmy stamped her foot. “That’s it, get out of my kitchen!” She grinned and added, “It’s coming up on 10:30.”
“OK, OK.” Bethany slid the shucked oysters into the stew and strained their liquor to the pot for good measure. “I’m done here, anyway.”
When she wheeled Daisy into Newbridge Station with her steaming pot of spicy oyster stew, for a moment she forgot that anything out of the ordinary had happened yesterday. She steeled herself for Marigold’s inevitable jabs, but when she looked up, it wasn’t Marigold barreling toward her—it was Olive.
Olive reached out with both hands and gripped Bethany’s forearms. “Be careful, sweetheart,” she said. Before Bethany could ask what she was talking about, Olive rushed back to the Honor Roll.
Bethany shook her head. What was that all about? Was it a warning? A threat? She glanced over at Marigold’s kiosk. It was closed, shrouded in canvas like a piece of old furniture. So it was all real—Marigold was dead, and someone killed her. Bethany shivered.
Be careful, sweetheart. Olive’s words echoed in her head as she went to unload the cargo trailer. To her surprise, a customer was already waiting at the counter. Well, maybe not a customer—it was Milo Armstrong, culinary critic for the Newbridge Community Observer, with Caboose sniffing at his shoes. What was he doing there? Had Olive been warning about him?
“Souperb opens at eleven,” Bethany said as she put the soup on the warmer. “I’m surprised to see you, though, now that the food feature is dead in its tracks.” She grimaced. Poor choice of words, Bethany.
“I’m not wearing my food critic hat today.” He tugged the brim of his baseball hat as Caboose purred and wound around his legs. “If I can pull off a good story this week, my editor said he’ll let me work the crime beat more often.”
“That hat is a crime,” she said, and winked at him.
“This your cat?” Milo eyed Caboose distrustfully.
Bethany shook her head. “Nope, he just works here. Ol’ Caboose shows up to beg for soup, but he’s supposed to prefer rodents.” She wrote “Spicy Oyster Stew” on the chalk board. Milo wrinkled his nose. “Not a fan of seafood?”
“Not a fan of spicy.”
Bethany’s jaw dropped. “How can you be a food critic if you don’t eat spicy stuff? That’s like half the world’s cuisines.”
Milo shrugged. “I can’t help it—I’m a supertaster. I have the gene that makes flavors more intense, especially chilies. It’s actually an asset as a food professional. Quite a few professional chefs are supertasters.”
“Seems like a liability to me,” Bethany muttered. “Anyway, the stew isn’t that spicy. Just a little to balance the richness of the oysters.”
“You just might talk me into it.” Milo smiled, his warm brown eyes trained on hers. Caboose pawed at his leg for attention until Milo reached down and gave him a good head-scratching.
Bethany leaned over the counter to watch the cat luxuriate in the attention. “I think he likes you.”
“I think he’s hoping for my leftovers.” Milo grinned, but then rearranged his face into a more serious expression. “Can I ask you about what happened yesterday? You know everybody involved.”
“Involved?” She frowned. Nobody I know was involved—were they?
“You know, the regulars at the station: employees, passengers, bakery patrons, and so on. People like Marigold. I remember you said you weren’t exactly friends.”
“We weren’t.”
“Why not? You were in the same business, spent a lot of time together. Shared ideas. Seems like a natural friendship.”
Bethany narrowed her eyes. She remembered that conversation with Milo. She had told him that Marigold copied her soup, not that she’d shared ideas with her. “I think you need to do some fact-checking.”
“Why, am I off base?” He widened his eyes and flipped back through his notebook. Bethany couldn’t tell if he truly didn’t remember the content of their conversation, or if he was baiting her into airing grievances against Marigold. Well, she wasn’t going to take the bait, no matter how much he batted his lashes.
“Marigold and I didn’t spend much time together. We were too busy helping customers. She only recently switched from serving smoothies to making soup, so we hadn’t really been in the same business until the last few days.” The minute the words slipped out of her mouth, she regretted them.
Milo jumped on it, as she knew he would. “So you were angry when she changed her business model.” A statement, not a question. Caboose pawed at his leg again, but Milo didn’t even look down at the cat, just shook his pant leg until Caboose lost interest and sat a few feet away, licking his paws and washing his face. Maybe the cat-lover shtick was just that—an act.
Bethany shrugged. “It wasn’t my favorite thing ever, no. But I wasn’t out-of-control mad or anything. I went to talk to Ben—”
“The stationmaster?” Milo interrupted, scribbling in his notebook.
Bethany nodded. “To ask him to talk her out of it. He said he would, but he didn’t. Or he did and it didn’t work.”
“So you complained, and nothing happened. She continued to sell soup. Did it bother you that she was getting special treatment because she was Ben Kovac’s girlfriend?”
“She wasn’t his girlfriend,” Bethany said automatically, but then second-guessed herself. Why did she say that? Marigold herself had said Ben proposed, for goodness’ sake. And Trevor said they had a “thing.” Only Ben had denied they were in a relationship. Why didn’t he want to admit to a relationship with Marigold?
“That’s not what I heard,” Milo said, tapping his notebook with his pen. “I’d have been pretty mad. Might have taken matters into my own hands. Maybe you confronted her and got into a tussle, and she went off the edge of the platform by accident.”
Bethany rolled her eyes. “Are you serious? You were literally at my kiosk two minutes after the train came in. Unless I can teleport, there’s no way I could have pushed Marigold onto the tracks and made it back to my booth while the train was still pulling into the station.”
Milo tilted his head as though he were sizing her up. “I don’t know. Someone who knows
the station well, blends in, doesn’t draw suspicion...I think you could have made it back in time.”
This could not be happening. The only dateable guy in Newbridge, who also happened to be a food critic, thought she was a murderer. Bethany looked around to see if someone—anyone—around could come dig her out of this hole. She was grateful to see Charley coming through the main entrance, the perfect person to set Milo straight.
“Charley! Charley!” Bethany waved her hand so Charley would notice her. Charley saw her and smiled, jogging the rest of the way over to the Souperb kiosk. The sudden movement made Caboose dart along the wall toward the stationmaster’s office and out of sight.
“What’s up?” Charley leaned on the counter and looked Milo up and down. “This guy bothering you?”
“No, but could you please tell him I’m not a murderer?”
Charley laughed. “She has an alibi, dude. We checked it out. Go bark up another tree.”
Milo touched his notebook to the brim of his baseball cap. “Sure thing, Detective Perez.” He walked a few feet away and paused, scribbling furiously in his notebook.
“What’re you doing here, anyway?” Bethany asked, turning away from Milo.
“Follow-up on the Marigold Wonder case. Came to ask around about some things the coroner found on her body. I guess I can start with you, since you’re here.”
“OK, shoot. I have a couple more minutes before the 10:55 rolls in.” Bethany gave the stew a stir. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Milo sidle closer to them to better hear their conversation. She jerked her head toward him so Charley was aware of his presence.
Charley made a face. “Shoo,” she said to Milo, who grudgingly took a few steps back. She turned her attention back to Bethany. “Any idea where Marigold would get a big fat check?”
Bethany frowned. “Like how big are we talking?”
“Fifty Gs. Cashier’s check.”
“What? No way! I thought you didn’t find her purse.”
Charley nodded. “We didn’t. It was in her bra along with her cousin’s social security card.”
“Do you think someone killed her because they wanted to steal the check? That’d explain why her purse was gone. The killer probably assumed the check was in there.”
“I can’t speculate on an ongoing investigation—you know that.” Charley stood up straight, as if she’d just realized she was there as a police detective and not as a friend of Bethany’s. “So, any reason you know of that she’d have that much money? Recent inheritance, sell a car or home, switch banks, something like that?”
Bethany shook her head. “I don’t have any idea. Although...Jen said Marigold was going to the bank yesterday morning.”
“Which bank issued the check?” Milo craned his neck over Charley’s shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of her clipboard. “Oldbridge Federal. Thanks!” He took off for the exit. And once again, any chance at a food feature—or a date—runs out the door.
“Argh!” Charley glared at his back and couldn’t keep the disgust out of her voice. “Reporters.”
“Sorry. I feel like it’s my fault he was here.”
“Nah, forget about it. They’re all vultures.” Charley smiled sympathetically.
“Speak of the devil!”
Charley furrowed her brow, confused. “Vultures?”
“No, Jen. Look!” Bethany pointed over to the ticket window, where Jen and Aaron stood in line. They each had a carry-on suitcase with them. “I think they’re leaving Newbridge.”
“Lucky you saw them. Ms. Smith! Mr. Andrews!” Charley raised her arm like she was hailing a cab. Jen and Aaron looked over and then looked back at the ticket booth. “This will just take a moment.” They glanced at each other and then reluctantly grabbed their suitcases and wheeled them over to where Charley and Bethany stood.
“Where are you headed?” Bethany asked.
Aaron rolled his eyes. “We’re not on vacation here. We’re going home.”
“To make funeral arrangements,” Jen added, her face drawn.
“I just have a couple of follow-up questions,” Charley said. “I won’t keep you long, but this is important. Do you know why Marigold might be carrying a large sum of money? Family inheritance or something? We found a check on her body.”
Jen gasped. “You did? No, I don’t know why she’d have money. Her bank account was virtually empty as far as I knew.”
“Is that all?” Aaron tapped his foot impatiently. “If we don’t get our tickets in the next five minutes, we’ll have to wait an hour for the next train.”
Charley held up her finger. “One more thing. Along with the check, Marigold also had Ms. Smith’s social security card—I can return that to you now.” She flipped up the first couple of sheets on her clipboard until she came to a plastic baggie. She slid the baggie out and presented it to Jen, who accepted it with two fingers.
“Thanks.” Jen opened her purse and dropped the card inside, still encased in the plastic bag.
Bethany gasped. “That’s Marigold’s handbag!” She’d recognize that brand of tacky anywhere.
Jen clutched it to her side. “It’s mine!”
“Look, Charley, it says ‘M.W.’ in rhinestones, Marigold’s initials. I know it’s hers because I noticed it when she was buying soup from me on Monday. That’s definitely Marigold’s purse, the one that’s missing from the crime scene.”
“She left it in the kiosk,” Jen said, covering the monogram with her hands.
Bethany narrowed her eyes. “You said she went to the bank. Why would she go to the bank without her purse?”
Charley stepped between the two women. “Bethany, can you please leave the questioning to me? You’re interfering with this investigation!”
“For your information, she gave it to me! We swapped. She said we’d be handbag sisters.” Jen sniffled and pulled a tissue out of the handbag to dab her nose. “If a purse is missing, it’d be mine. Black, patent-leather, vintage Chanel.”
Suspicion strikes again, making me look like a jerk. “Sorry,” Bethany said. “I’ll shut up now.”
“Stellar idea,” Aaron said dryly.
“Do you know why Marigold would have your social security card?” Charley asked. “Did you give that to her, too?”
Probably stole it—took it from her own cousin. Maybe Olive was right, and Marigold was just a thief. And maybe she took something that made someone angry enough to kill her—something like fifty thousand dollars.
Jen shook her head. “It must have gotten mixed up when we switched purses.”
“Ah.” Charley nodded. “Makes sense. Well, have a safe trip. The department will be in touch as the case develops.”
“Fine.” Aaron steered Jen back toward the ticket booth, but before they could get more than a step or two, Olive scurried out of the Honor Roll and blocked their way.
“Oh, you poor dears! I just wanted to tell you again how very sorry I am for everything that happened. I know it’s a lot to ask, but it’d mean so much to me if you’d stay in Newbridge a few more days.”
Aaron sneered. “Why would we want to spend any more time here?”
“I’m organizing a memorial for Marigold on Saturday afternoon here at the station. I think it’ll be healing for the whole community. We’ll have some yummy food and then a nice little service where people can talk about their memories of Marigold. The good ones, obviously.”
“It’s not a bad idea, actually,” Charley said. “We should have the final police report filed by then, so you can at least go home with a complete picture of what happened to your cousin. Some closure.”
“Well,” Jen began, “you see, we—”
“We can’t really afford two or three more nights in a quaint little B&B now that we have a funeral to pay for,” Aaron cut in, acid in his voice.
“Right.” Jen nodded, her eyes sad.
Olive shook her head and clucked sympathetically. “No, no, that won’t do. You should come stay with me and Garrett. We
have a spare room in the cottage now that the kids have all flown the coop. I’ll even make you my special waffles for breakfast. I won’t let you say no!”
Jen and Aaron looked at each other for a long moment.
“It’s a great idea,” Charley said. “And bonus, once the final report is filed, we’ll probably be able to release Marigold’s assets to you, too.”
“You mean the check?” Aaron asked.
Charley nodded. “She didn’t have a will, so anything that was hers will go to Jen as her next of kin.”
“That’d help you pay for the funeral,” Olive said. “Please say you’ll stay! It’s only until Saturday, though of course you can stay longer if you want.”
Jen nodded. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Don’t mention it!” Olive chirped, and bustled them off just as the 10:55 train pulled into the station.
“Want some stew?” Bethany asked Charley as soon as they were gone.
Charley wrinkled her nose. “Nah. Oysters are not really my thing.”
Chapter 6
Thursday afternoon
THE SPICY OYSTER STEW was not the runaway success that Bethany had hoped. For one, ridership on the 10:55 was down—way down—from yesterday, and the 11:55 was only marginally better. Apparently a person getting squashed on the tracks put a real damper on the commuter train business. And secondly, it seemed like fifty percent of customers were like Milo and didn’t like spicy food, and the other fifty percent were like Charley and didn’t like oysters.
Maybe it was a good thing Milo hadn’t tried the stew. After all, no food feature was better than a negative one. She could see the headline now: “Souperb Soups: Spotlight on Failure.” She sighed. So much for the one-hour workday. She put her elbow on the counter and rested her chin on her hand while she waited for the 12:55 train.
Trevor walked by, whistling, and stopped when he saw her glum expression. “Bad day?”
“You win some, you lose some. Want some oyster stew? On the house.”
“Can’t. Maintenance rounds. Gotta check the ol’ checklist. I’m just looking for Caboose—he likes to go through the tunnels with me.” He jangled his ring of keys. “Usually this sound makes him come running.”